White Blood | Klaus Mikaelson

Chapter Nine

1872 — Paris, France

   Revenge, the sweetest morsel to the mouth that ever was cooked in Hell. Eleanor Fraser made sure she got her sweet revenge against Nanette Passebon. Just like she had learned from the infamous Klaus Mikaelson, she made Nanette suffer for as long as she could. She starved her, fed from her, broke her fingers over and over again, just like she had done to her that night. Eleanor would be lying if she said it didn't feel powerful, because it did, and she enjoyed every bit of it. Once Nanette died by her hands, or teeth, she felt satisfied, and it was a strange feeling. If she were human, the death of a person would not feel satisfying, especially if it were by her hand. The death of someone, in her human life, would have been the worst thing that can happen. It would have felt as if she were being eaten from the inside, as if her stomach would swallow itself. But, as a vampire, the death of someone who harmed her was, in fact, as satisfying as a piece of chocolate.

   Klaus had noticed. He watched her carefully, as if he were assessing the situation. Eleanor could tell that he felt proud of her, as a parent would to a child. The look in his eyes told her, the gentle mannerisms towards her, they had changed throughout the months that she tortured Nanette. From cold and distant—as if she were a soldier—to warm and inviting. It was as if finally had accepted her as part of his family, and she enjoyed that. She enjoyed it too much that she requested a trip to Paris a few years later. 

   "Why Paris?" Klaus asked, a look of distaste in his eyes. "We can go to New York, it's much closer."

   "You daggered Rebekah thirty-five years ago, Klaus, which to me is thirty-five years of being bored with just you and Elijah," Eleanor answered, pouting. "I spent every moment of my vampire life in New Orleans, and I rather see the world."

   "Bored?" Klaus laughed, teasingly. "You spent years torturing Nanette, then had some fun torturing her followers; how were you bored, Eleanor?"

   "Because Rebekah wasn't there," she said, rolling her eyes. "We became good friends through the years, and you daggered her because she fell in love with Marcel."

   "Love?" he scoffed. "That wasn't love, that was infatuation."

   "That is still some form of love," she remarked. "There was a passion there. Short lived, yes, but it was bright and smouldering, like a dying flame trying to stay alive."

   Klaus let out a small huff. "Poetic, Eleanor."

   "She has been reading the books I have given her," Elijah joined, letting out a short chuckle. "Of course she is poetic. She has written several poems herself, brother, and plans on publishing them under the pseudonym Frankie Webb."

   "Frankie Webb," Klaus repeated, almost with a chuckle. "A neutral name, where no one will know if you are a female or male."

   "No one will buy a book made by a woman," Eleanor said, holding her chin up, "because all men are sexist pigs."

   Both Klaus and Elijah laughed, amused at the rampant of the girl. Eleanor huffed, rolled her eyes, and turned her head to the front. There was a young man directing them to their room in the luxurious Saint James Hotel. It was a big château surrounded by gardens, opulent, everything at the most luxurious for the Original vampires and their friend. The halls, even though simple, were decorated in vases with colourful flowers, a red carpet, and walls painted gold and white. And suddenly, they were outside of the château. 

   "I thought our room was inside," Eleanor said, her tone sounding more like a question. She turned to Klaus, who had a soft smirk around his lips. 

   "Oh, our stay will be more extravagant than just a simple suite, love," he said, turning his head to the front. He held his head high, the smirk still decorating his pink coloured lips.